One of the many things I love about playing the piano is that there is no guessing. When you hit the key, it produces a note. You don’t have to worry about if it is “right on,” if it’s in tune, unless several years have passed without the piano being tuned. When you press the key, you can tell right away if it’s the right note. It’s immediate aural feedback. There is no wandering aimlessly up and down the strings, like with the violin.
Lately, I have been digging out old piano music books, some of which I haven’t really looked at for many years. What seemed so difficult before is now “doable.” I am not great, but at least I can play the music with relative ease. You would laugh if I told what music it is (old movies that shall remain nameless because from this modern perspective they seem quaint and cheesy). I still mainly play classical music, but once in a while I need a break from it, just like on the violin. Also like the violin, I have my current challenge, and that, at the moment, is Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Almost everything seems easy after that.
Tonight I loved that it was stormy outside, the rain falling steadily around the house, thunder booming occasionally, the wind kicking up in spurts and gusts. Inside, warm and dry, I made the piano growl, then thunder. I picked some notes in a sonata that I was working on, notes that sounded like the rain outside, let them chase themselves up and down the keyboard under my dancing fingers. I was lost in that world for a while until I finally came to and realized 45 minutes had passed. (I should have started dinner long ago.)
So, I reluctantly pushed myself away from the keyboard and vowed to return tomorrow. At least this week is spring break, and I will have plenty of opportunities to revisit that warm happy place of relief.
And I don’t even care who hears me.